


Unwind

by emwebb17



Series: Tumblr Fics [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emwebb17/pseuds/emwebb17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha is exhausted after a hectic convention schedule.  Jensen helps him unwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwind

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr for a prompt from luvemishacollins and supermishamiga
> 
> Also, totally got Jossed on Princess Ackles' birth date.

Thirty-six days, six countries, countless panels, and two crossings of the international date line—and he still wasn’t home yet.  It was no joke: LA had the worst traffic he’d ever had the misfortune of driving in.  In fact, there were only two other cities in the entire frickin’ world that were supposed to have it worse—but he wasn’t sure he believed that at the moment.  He didn’t even have company to help him through it.  Vicki and the kids hadn’t gone to Australia, which was why he’d convinced Sasha to go, and they wouldn’t be at home to greet him.  Vicki had one more book launch to attend.  He wasn’t there because it was supposed to take place while he was in Brazil at Rising Con, and when that had been canceled—he’d guiltily felt relief.

When he’d agreed to the insane convention schedule for this summer, it had been out of genuine desire to see and interact with the fans.  They made everything worthwhile.  He enjoyed working on  _Supernatural_ —he had an issue or two with some of the themes and Castiel’s occasional misuse—but they had so much fun on set it was barely like working at all.  Long hours to be sure, but fun and comfortable—and homelike.  The cliché was that the cast and crew felt like a big extended family—the cliché was true.  And he knew that if he left to work on other shows, it would be good for him to do something different and try new things—but he doubted it would be anywhere near as fun.  Even still, he knew he could leave it behind him.  If he really had to, if he started feeling caged, he knew he could walk away from it.  But the fans made him not  _want_  to walk away.

It was exciting to see the passion and fervor they felt for the show.  It was humbling to see hundreds of eyes—gazing adoringly at him.  And…it was a little frightening to realize just how much of an influence he had on some of their lives.  The number of people who told him that they found something to help them through their depression or that they had stopped cutting themselves or even that they had chosen to keep living because of  _him_ —it was overwhelming at times.  He really didn’t know what about himself warranted that kind of veneration, but he would never throw it back in their faces just because  _he_  didn’t think he was anything special.  He was just a guy with a few quirky ideas who had found a way to harness his small celebrity to do some good in the world.

When he reflected on what he had become now—it was hard to reach back to who he was before sometimes.  He had fallen into acting by accident.  It was just supposed to be a lark, a way to make some money until he figured out what he really wanted to do with his life.  Somehow, the acting had stuck out of the countless jobs he’d had since graduating college—but he’d always been unknown.  He worked enough to make a living and to contribute his part to maintaining the household, but no one had known his name.  No one had ever squealed from fifty yards away and then come charging down a sidewalk to tell him how awesome he was.  Not more than a handful of people had ever cared about his rambling musings.  And of course, he’d never had people openly tell him he was a horrible human being and had ruined their favorite television show.  And he’d never had such violent backlashes thrown at him for inadvertently misspeaking.  Sometimes it was hard to reconcile the unconditional love with the irrational hate—he felt he deserved neither and sometimes he just wanted to be unknown again.  As laughable as the notion was because, really, he  _was_  an unknown D-List celebrity, but there it was.  He loved that he could inspire people to do good in the world and he couldn’t be more insanely proud of the work they had done in Haiti—but at the same time sometimes he felt like the spirit behind his good intentions was twisted and misused.  Even by the fans themselves.  Sometimes—

Misha gasped and slammed on the brakes as a car cut him off and the entire lane came to halt.  He breathed out slowly, calming his heartbeat and loosened his grip on the wheel.  His skin made tacky, sweaty noises as it peeled off the leather.  He laughed giddily to himself and gave his head a shake.  This is what LA traffic did to him—it made him go all Kurt Cobain.  Thank God he hadn’t gotten  _that_  famous _that_ quickly—or he just might have come close to taking the same route to get out of it.  Though, he supposed he did have a little better of a support system than Cobain had had.

For the rest of the drive home, Misha pushed all those maudlin thoughts aside and realized he was just tired.  The kind of tired that actually made your body ache and your mind feel like it was sifting through mud to find coherent thoughts.  At last—he was home.  Well, home for now.  As a regular on the show now, long term home was going to be Vancouver.  Maybe it  _would_  be easier to get a spot on a show that filmed in LA—but that wouldn’t be the same.   _Supernatural_  was where he wanted to be and what he wanted to be doing.  And besides, he couldn’t imagine another year like 2011—spending  _that_  much time away from—

His phone rang in his pocket just as he stepped onto his front porch, keys in hand.  Misha smiled as he pulled the device out and looked at the screen.  Think of a gorgeous, green-eyed devil and he will call you.

“Hey, Jensen,” Misha answered.  “What’s up?”

“Are you home?  I checked to see that your flight got in on time, and judging by the traffic around here, you should be home by now, right?”

Misha stopped just short of stepping inside once he had the door open.  He didn’t want to give Jensen’s anus the satisfaction of its retentive nature.

“No, actually I’m not.”

“Liar.  I just heard you open the door.”

“Fine.  Your timing is impeccable.  You’re amazing.”  Misha struggled with his suitcase one handed through the door and then kicked it shut behind him as he spoke.  “Oh!  Are you calling with news?  Is she here yet?  How is Danneel?”

“Well, her due date was two days ago and the kid is still in her.  How do you think she’s doing?”

Misha chuckled—even though Jensen probably would have said giggled—and was about to make a smart ass comment when it occurred to him he might be on speaker phone.  And he did not want a pissed off pregnant lady gunning for him.  Been there, done that, had the literal scars to prove it.

“Well, you know estimates for that kind of thing are bullshit anyway,” he said instead.  “Who knows, maybe the kid is still incubating because she needs a few more days.”

“I think she’s had plenty quite frankly,” Jensen grumbled softly.

Okay, so not on speaker, but Danneel was in the room.

“How are you, Mish?  That was a hectic schedule you had going on.”

“Yeah, I know.  I think I need to buy some of that ZzzQuil stuff and just pass out for a couple of days.  Then I’ll be good as new.”

“Just in time for Comic Con.”

Misha groaned good naturedly.  “Don’t remind me until I wake up in two days.”

“You’re alone, right?  Need some company?  I could…”

Misha waited, enjoying listening to Jensen struggle not to end that sentence in a “girly domestic” sort of way.  Finally he took pity on the man.

“No, babe, I’ll be fine.  Besides Jenneel might decide today is her day.”

“Please stop calling her that.”

“I will as soon as you tell me her name.”

“We’re not telling  _anyone_  until she’s born!”

“Well, then, Jenneel it is.  Anyway, tell Danneel I said hi.  And I bought something for her in Australia.”

“Will she beat you up when you give it to her?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will she beat  _me_  up?”

Misha grinned.  “Maybe.”

“Ass.”

Misha laughed.  “Love you too, hon.  I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay—if you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.  Bye.”

“Bye.”

Misha left his suitcase in the foyer; there weren’t any kids to hurt themselves on it.  He made his way into the kitchen, dropping his phone off on the kitchen table as he went.  Advil, 20 year Macallan, and then the couch.  Yes, he needed all three of those things and he could tell it would be a miracle if he made it to the couch because he had finally hit the proverbial wall.  The Advil and Scotch went down easily enough and just one—two—three steps—he flopped onto the couch.  He was on it enough that he knew he wasn’t going to fall off it, so he let himself fall asleep.

Two seconds later a jarring sound filled his head, jolting him from his sleep, and making his brain feel foggier and body even heavier than he had before.  The clock told him an hour had actually passed, not two seconds—but neither his brain nor his body trusted that wibbly-wobbly bullshit known as time.  The doorbell rang and he realized that that had been what had woke him up.  God he did not want any Girl Scout Cookies.  He closed his eyes again.  The doorbell rang again followed by successive pounding on the door itself.

“For fuck’s sake,” Misha griped and pushed himself to his feet.  He staggered down the hall to the front door and threw it open not even bothering to check the scowl on his face.

Jensen stood on the stoop smiling at him—and his smile actually got wider as he took in Misha’s disheveled appearance.  Misha stared for about five seconds, and then he took two quick steps forward, falling against Jensen and sighing when he felt those familiar arms wrap around him, supporting him, loving him.  Jensen spoke so much better with actions than words.  Then Misha suddenly straightened and pushed back a little.

“What are you doing here?”

“You sounded dead on the phone, Mish.  I wanted to come check on you.  See if I can’t make you feel better.”

“Thank you, really, but Danneel—”

“Is fine.  She’s not having any symptoms even close to resembling labor.  Plus, her mother  _and_  my mother are with her.”

Misha raised an eyebrow.  “You left Danneel to fend for herself with your mother?”

Jensen tsked his displeasure.  “They get along fine.  And besides, her mother is there as a buffer.  Plus, Danneel wanted me to check on you too.”

“But what if she does go into labor?”

“Your house is actually closer to the hospital.  I’ll probably beat her there.”

Misha felt his sudden burst of energy slipping away—and Jensen was right there looking so warm and solid and with hands that he might be able to compel into giving him a foot massage.

“I’ll be sure to let Danneel know you lodged a formal protest and it was denied.”

Misha nodded.  “Good enough.”

He leaned into Jensen, tilting his head up, but was denied his kiss until Jensen had shuffled them inside and closed the door behind him.  Paranoid little shit.  But the kiss was soft, tender, and completely undemanding.

“You’re perfect sometimes,” Misha breathed against his lips.

“Only sometimes?” Jensen murmured back.

“Couch,” he gave as a reply.

Jensen let out a huff of air that may have been a laugh or offense at being denied further compliments.  Jensen settled against one comfy corner of the couch and Misha was going to take the other end to see if he could get his foot massage, but Jensen took him by the wrist and pulled him into his lap. He situated him so that his legs extended the length of the couch and his head was laying against the overstuffed arm, the rest of his body comfortably cradled by Jensen’s.  Jensen began to pet his head with one hand, allowing his fingers to card through Misha’s slightly greasy hair and his fingertips to place just the right amount of pressure on his scalp.  Misha let out a small noise and turned into the sensation.  Jensen’s other hand came up to gently cup his face, his thumb massaging his temple.

Misha felt his entire body go limp.  He was comfortable, he was safe—God, _this_  was home.

“Thank you, Jensen,” he said, his words slightly slurring.  “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

“I did, baby.  That’s why I’m here.  You do too much for other people.  You need to take care of yourself sometimes.”

Misha just smiled.  “That’s what you’re here for.”

Jensen leaned over and placed a sweet kiss on his lips.  “And I always will be.”

Jensen sat back up and watched Misha drift on the edge of consciousness.  He continued to comb through Misha’s hair with one hand, but the other he moved to his chest, rubbing soothing circles on his skin through the worn out X-Men T-shirt.  His hand moved lower, giving him a little belly rub, and Misha stretched into it like a damn cat.  He might have been going crazy, but he could have sworn he heard a purr start in the back of Misha’s throat.  Then he trailed his fingers on the soft skin peeking out where the T-shirt was pulled up from the top of his jeans.  He ran his index finger back and forth while his thumb flicked at the button on his jeans.  Misha was still looking half-dead to the world.

Jensen moved his hand a little lower.  How long ago had Rome been?  Three weeks?  Four?  An eternity?  His thumb found the outline he was looking for and ran down the length of it—not briefs today.

“Jensen…” Misha murmured sleepily.

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Misha hummed and stretched his body, pushing his hips up into Jensen’s hand, but then settled back into his lap.  Jensen used his whole hand to rub gently, slowly over the fly of Misha’s jeans.  He used his fingertips to trace the gradually growing bulge.  It probably took a good ten minutes of soft, easy stroking to get him fully hard, but he remained pliant and tranquil otherwise.  Carefully, Jensen popped the button on his jeans and even more carefully pulled the zipper down.  He reached inside and under the boxer-briefs to pull Misha’s erection free.  In the process he caught a glimpse of something.

“Is that a tiger?”

“Mm-hmm,” Misha replied, nodding his head into Jensen’s hand to remind him to keep petting his hair.

Jensen resumed stroking with both hands, keeping the pace easy and pleasurable without being overly stimulating.  He kept his grip loose and pulled up along the soft skin, circling his thumb over the head, spreading precome back down the underside.  Misha made a noise and rolled his hips at that, but Jensen once again returned to easy stroking and the man settled back down.  Jensen moved his other hand from Misha’s hair (at which point he mewled unhappily) and used it to push Misha’s jeans and underwear further down his legs.  Then he carefully arranged Misha so that he was more lying than sitting, his head still on the arm of the couch, his ass on Jensen’s thigh.  Jensen switched the hand that was stroking Misha’s cock, adding a little more pressure and Misha undulated with the feeling, humming softly.  Keeping an eye on Misha’s face and his closed eyes, Jensen stuck two fingers in his mouth and got them good and wet.  Then he reached down between Misha’s legs and slid one finger down his perineum to his entrance.

Misha jerked softly, but didn’t open his eyes as he said, “I thought you’re supposed to be helping me relax.”

“Trust me, baby, you’ll be relaxed.”

Misha tilted his head back, letting out a small sigh as both of Jensen’s fingers slicked up his hole.  He put his fingers back in his mouth one more time for a little extra wetness, and then pushed one carefully inside.  Misha arched his back and gripped Jensen’s knee.

“Yeah…” he moaned.

Jensen smiled and almost laughed.  “Yeah?” he questioned.

“Yes.”  He spread his legs a little wider.  “Yeah…yes.”

Jensen smiled fondly at him, circling his finger enough so that when the second slipped in there wasn’t too much resistance.

Misha’s other hand came up to the back of Jensen’s neck and his fingers began to play with the short hairs at the nape.  Jensen shivered and slid his fingers in a little deeper, but deliberately avoided his prostate.  He pushed them in and out of Misha’s body, biting his lip to keep himself from getting too aroused—but the feeling of Misha’s body—no matter what part he was touching it always made him go a little crazy.  His other hand stroked evenly and gently over Misha’s erection.  The man’s breathing had quickened, but only a little.  His hands kept their grip on Jensen’s knee and neck, fingers squeezing, and then releasing.  His hips rolled, just a little, with the movement of Jensen’s hands.  A few minutes of this and Misha let out a moaning sigh, arched his back slightly, and came all over Jensen’s hand.  Jensen worked him through the orgasm, drawing it out, comforting him as he came down.  And when Misha settled down again, he was completely lax and contented, mumbling softly, almost inaudibly.

“What’s that, babe?”

“Love you, love you…” Misha trailed off.

Jensen smiled and put his hands to Misha’s hips to gently lift him so he could get up but Misha stopped him.

“Don’t.  Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  Just going to get something to clean up with.”

“No.  Stay here.”

Who was Jensen to argue?  He maneuvered them enough so that they were lying on their sides on the couch, Misha’s back to his chest, and had their heads pillowed on their arms.  Jensen slung his free arm over Misha’s stomach and pulled him close.

“Just a little nap,” Misha said sleepily.

“Just a short one,” Jensen agreed.

He nuzzled his nose into the back of Misha’s hair and gave him a kiss.

“Thanks,” Misha said, though he didn’t sound fully lucid.  “For taking care of me.”

Jensen smiled.  “I told you, baby.  I always will.”


End file.
